“What?” Suit said.
Jesse shook his head.
“What have you got?” he said.
Suit took out his notebook.
“Walton Weeks was booked for public indecency in White Marsh, Maryland, in 1987.”
H I G H P R O F I L E
“And fingerprinted at the time,” Jesse said.
“That’s what it says.”
“Who booked him?”
“Baltimore County police.”
“Got a name?” Jesse said.
“No.”
“Phone?”
“Molly just said to find out why he was in the system,” Suit said. “Is this going to delay my promotion to detective?”
“Probably,” Jesse said and leaned forward and pulled the phone to him.
“You going to pursue the investigation yourself?” Suit said.
“I like to keep my hand in,” Jesse said and dialed 411. It took two holds and one second phone call before Jesse was talking to the sergeant in charge of Precinct 9 of the Baltimore County Police Department in White Marsh.
“We busted Walton Weeks,” the sergeant said.
“Nineteen eighty-seven,” Jesse said, “public indecency.”
“For crissake,” the sergeant said, “what’d he do, wave his willy at somebody?”
“I don’t know,” Jesse said. “I thought I’d ask you.”
“Oh, oh,” the sergeant said. “A test of our record-keeping.”
“Anything you got,” Jesse said.
“Where’d you say you were from?”
“Paradise, Massachusetts,” Jesse said.
“Outside of Boston, right? Where Weeks got popped.”
“You read the papers,” Jesse said.
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R O B E R T B . P A R K E R
“And watch TV and listen to the radio,” the cop said.
“Good luck to you guys.”
“Thanks.”
